A hidden gateway!
by TalesOFTanya
Summary: A 20 year-old college student Sakshi Gupta in the present day finds herself home-alone one with her favorite hero. Sounds interesting? But it isn't so when she is actually entrapped with a kid version of her hero... Read and enjoy how a fangirl become a baby sitter! This story is especially dedicated to my real life friend, Sakshi!
1. Chapter 1

**Guys! Another small break from my usual self... This story is originally dedicated to one my really cool friend cum reader. Yes, the name of the OFC is actually a name of the cool friend I am talking about. The story is as simple as my other ones.. My style statement! anyways review as much as possible..I need to know if I am write senseless or sensible! Ok enjoy now! Sakshi! Girl this one's for ya! Romance fully loaded xD**

I was home alone on a winter night of Friday night. In Dehradun.

That's how most horror movies start, isn't it? A young girl, all alone in a massive house with acres of land surrounding so no one could hear her scream and from the shadows, the killer lurks, watching her through the windows...

Well, I'd defy anyone to make a good horror movie set in my house. My house is in the middle of a council estate in a fairly average city just on the outskirts of Dehradun, and the walls between the ridiculously tiny houses are so thin that I always know when my neighbour is walking around upstairs; he has a habit of pacing his bedroom when he fights with his girlfriend. Furthermore, my house was even more crowded than it should have been, serving its life functioning as a student house. My landlord had turned all the available rooms – barring the kitchen and bathroom – into bedrooms so that the house, technically only supposed to have two bedrooms, had three. My downstairs bedroom came with its very own (non-functioning) fireplace and mantelpiece as a reminder that it was supposed to be a living room.

Anyway, I've digressed through description; my point is that for a good horror movie to work, you need to have lots of open spaces and potential places for the killer to hide. In my house, there were minimal places to hide without being discovered quickly; every room was nearly always in use. One of my housemates, Chirag , was rather fond of Sherlock Holmes and used this fact to his advantage. He liked to kick open my door when I'd be sitting innocently in my room and shoot me mercilessly until he was out of bullets. Whoever said that boys matured as they got older was lying through their teeth.

I ramble too much.

So, like I said previously, the Friday night that this story begins, I was home alone. Chirag and my other housemate, Sweta, had gone out to the cinema to see the latest instalment in some gory horror film franchise whilst I'd chosen to stay at home.

"Yar Sakshi, chal na humare saath maza ayega! Tickets book kar lenge instantly don't worry!" Chirag persuaded as he and Sweta were stepping out the front door.

"Nehi yar," I said with a grin. "Go on, you two kids have fun!"

They both laughed; I'm actually two years younger than both of them having come straight from school to university whereas they'd taken gap years and done various exciting things.

"And you," I said, sternly pointing a finger at Chirag, "Mere Sweta ko kuch hua, you should know I have ak 44 and a shovel – I doubt you will be missed."

"CID lover," Chirag laughed, pulling on his coat. "I'll have her back at a reasonable hour and all that... no later than 2am!"

Sweta grinned apologetically. "We'll try not to make too much noise when we get in. Raat ka show haina tu samajh rahi hai na, I doubt it'll be over much before two... Sakku tu bore ho jaigi please chalna humare saath..."

"Sweta, tu meri room mate cum best friend hai, mummy mat ban," I pointed out. "Go, have fun, enjoy your life! I have a fantastic evening planned anyway; a date, woh bhi Sr. Inspector Daya ke saath!"

My housemates both rolled their eyes.

"We need to get you laid," Chirag said flatly. "And very soon."

"Goodbye guys!" I said firmly, pushing them out the door and shutting it behind them.

So there I was, a 20 year-old student, living in Dehradun in the finest years of my life... and I was home alone on a Friday night and doing the washing up because I was too much of a wimp to see a film about gratuitous violence and torture.

Plus, as a student, I was suffering one of the typical traits that came with the title - permanently poor.

I sighed, absently staring at the soapy water as I rinsed out my favourite Starbucks mug (which may or may not have been gained through less-than-legal ways), putting it on the draining board –

- And suddenly, there was a loud BANG from behind me. I jumped about a foot in the air and spun around.

The kitchen was empty.

"What the -?!" I asked out-loud to no one in particular.

I suspiciously looked around the kitchen from where I stood, trying to listen for any more odd noises. It was probably my neighbour; maybe he was just as much of a loser as I was, staying in on a Friday night? Chirag's comment about me getting laid suddenly resounded in my head... maybe I could just happen pop round with a Silk chocolate... "_Oh hey, I heard you were in tonight and since you've just broken up with your girlfriend again, I was wondering if you wanted to – how did I know that? Err, well I may have heard her screaming at you through the wall that separates our house. Actually, whilst I'm here, what's your name?_"

Just as I was turning back to the sink, there was another loud noise, this time a clatter – like the sounds of pots moving against each other. I turned around again, trying to locate the noise. It sounded like it was coming from inside the full-length cupboard at the other end of the kitchen.

Do you ever get those moments in life where, in hindsight, you wonder if there was anything you could have done to predict what was coming next? I remain firmly convinced to this day that there was no possible way I could have guessed what was would happen when I opened the cupboard. At the time, I distinctly remember thinking that I hadn't stacked something properly when I put it away and was preparing myself for an avalanche of plates and pans as I opened the door –

"... hello!"

I screamed.

So did the boy in my kitchen cupboard.

I first heard of CID when I was 18. I was young, naive and in my first year of university, desperately trying to figure out what I wanted to do with my life. For me, university initially completely failed to live up to the hype – the endless parties I'd been promised were nowhere to be seen and the wonderful drunken sexual encounters I was supposed to have were non-existent. As for my degree, my lectures were filled with subjects I had little to no interest in, finding out far too late that a degree in Film Studies would get me NOWHERE in life, particularly when I didn't even really want to go into the film industry anyway. But far worse than all of that, I had no friends.

The lack of friends was definitely the worst part. I could have dealt with realising I'd made a mistake in my degree and discovering the social life wasn't all it was cracked up to be – if I'd had someone to share it with. Sure, I was _making_ friends but there was no one who I'd immediately just 'clicked' with. Do you know how it feels to know that if you skipped lectures or even dropped off the face of the earth, no one would notice? It's ten shades of suck, that's what it is!

I was used to feel content when I started reading news papers. Headlines used to be filled with news that had to with all bravery works of the CID team, which attracted me more and more into them. And then I found out it was man that fucked everything up forever for me. I was becoming obsessed with him. I used to spend my free time looking up his childhood photos and early officer photos of him with Abhijeet. In one of the interview he had acknowledged his friendship with childhood companion Abhijeet.

A lot of Daya fans will vehemently protest that they _always_ knew that CID is only best because of Daya. Me, I've got no problem admitting I thought CID would ever run without such an officer. After discovering his true talent, I was so intrigued by this team that I wanted to find out a bit more about them. I was impressed to discover the team had been going since they were young, and even more impressed to discover that the Abhijeet and Daya are two inseparable best friends. Amazing officers living in Mumbai, had got me loving that town more than I can ever imagine.

Yeah, yeah, I know, it's cheesy. I'm sure that the team got countless people, each of them feeling the same as me, maybe some of them even in far worse situations than mine, but whatever. For me, thoughts about these men came into my life at a time I really needed some help – it gave me something to borrow some strength off.

And gradually, things got better at university. I started to like my course (though I still think it's a useless degree). I made friends and found kindred spirits, like Chirag and Shweta, who I would eventually end up living with after the end of the first year. The point I'm trying to make with this somewhat-long flashback is that I'd also been changed. I was a CID fan from that point on and there was no going back.

Therefore, on a Friday night when I opened my kitchen cupboard and happened to find a small boy in there, even throughout the shock (and screaming), I couldn't help but notice that the boy had a very strange resemblance to the thirteen year-old version of none other than my favourite senior officer of CID.

Of course, this wasn't the most dominant thought in my head. _That_ one, as both the boy and I screamed like the apocalypse had come, was, "**OHMYGODTHEREISACOMPLETESTRANGERINMYHOUSEANDI'MALONEHOWTHEHELLDIDTHEYGETIN  
>ARETHEREMOREOFTHEMWHERE'SMYPHONEWHAT'STHEHELLISGOINGON?!<strong>"

I slammed the door shut with unnecessary violence, pressing hard against it with both hands. For a few seconds, there was complete silence, broken only by my gasped breathing, feeling my heart race and thud against my rib cage.

And then, there was a tiny, timid knock from the other side of the cupboard door and an equally tiny voice calling out.

"Eh Deva... hello?"

I kept my hands pressed firmly against the cupboard door with all my strength, trying to rationalise what the hell was going on.

It was just a small boy, I told myself. He could have gotten into the house earlier – somehow – but why was he in here in the first place? – but he might have been scared when he realised I was in, so he hid. I'd probably scared the shit out of him, flinging the cupboard door open and screaming like a banshee.

But he could also have been one of the chavvy kids off the estate and had actually been trying to rob us when, again, he realised there was someone else in the house. What if there were more of them in the house?! What if it'd been one of the gangs?! They'd never particularly intimidated me – there's something about a group of spotty twelve year-olds in their knock-off tracksuits, banging on about " 'ow _well_ 'ard" they are that's never really struck the intended fear into my heart that it's supposed to – but if there were more of them in the house... we had laptops, for God's sake! And Sweta would go bezerk if anyone touched her clothes...

The boy was knocking on the cupboard door again, this time a little more strongly, and calling out. For some bizarre reason, he was speaking Marathi – If my two years of being a lover of CID and Mumbai have taught me anything, it's how to recognise Marathi when I hear it. I still can't actually _speak_ it to save my life but I can recognise a few basic words.

Marathi or not, there was also no mistaking the distinct tremor in his voice.

"Hello?" he called again. "Abhijeet?"

Well, I'm not going to get any answers with kid still trapped in the cupboard, I reasoned with myself. Just as I was taking a deep breath and preparing to open the door, there was a crash inside the cupboard, followed by a loud "behnchod!"

I pulled the door open again and said the first thing that came to my mind.

"Mind your language!"

The boy blinked furiously as the light filled the cupboard, almost shying away from it. He was half-propped, half holding himself up awkwardly against the shelves with his foot stuck in one of the saucepans on the floor. His eyes suddenly focused on me – has he curled his hair? - and shrunk back into the cupboard as much as he could.

Yup, I'd definitely terrified him.

"Niklo waha se!" I said, grabbing him by the shoulder and pulling him out, a little more roughly than necessary. The saucepan came with him with a CLUNK – his foot was well and truly stuck.

"Kon ho tum? Yaha kese aye?!" I demanded, pointing at the cupboard. I realised I had to stoop slightly to meet his eyes; I'm 5ft7 and this kid could only have been about 5ft4.

His eyes darted from the cupboard, to me, then all around the kitchen, as if he was taking in his surroundings... and then he said something in rapid Marathi again.

"Zyada hoshiyar mat bano!" I snapped. "Tum mujhe samajh sakte ho, ab batao yaha kese aye?!"

As I was yelling, the most irritating and inappropriate thought that I could possibly have for that moment in time was jumping around in my head; this kid really _did_ look like Daya... except I'd never seen Daya looking like he was young and when he is about to cry.

Horror filled me. I've never been good with kids, particularly crying ones. Case in point, when I babysat a seven year-old when I was sixteen. It'd all been going fine until he suddenly started missing his Mum and started howling for her. I thought playing a game would cheer him up and remembered that he'd especially loved 'Hide And Seek In The Dark.'

At the time, it didn't occur to me that locking an-already-hysterical seven year-old in a completely pitch-black room probably wasn't the best idea.

"Hey, no no, please mat ro!" I said, watching the Daya-a-like's eyes dangerously water up. My hand shot out to pat his shoulder in a gesture I genuinely meant to be comforting. The kid, however, clearly thought I was going to beat him. He let out a strangled cry and the next thing I knew, big fat tears were rolling down his cheeks as he started bawling.

"No no noo!" I cried, flapping my hands ineffectually. "Me nehi mar rahi apko, mat ro please!"

It was no use; he only cried louder.

I looked around the kitchen, desperately trying to find something that would shut him up. This Daya-kid wasn't a quiet crier and any second now, I was sure my neighbour would be ringing the doorbell... "_Is ghar me bache ki rone ki awaz ayi? Kya ho raha hai?!_"

My eyes fell on an opened packet of Brittania Cakes on the kitchen counter. Chirag was going to kill me for this (you did not touch his Brittania Cakes without permission unless you wanted to be in considerable pain for a long time) but desperate times called for desperate measures.

"Here!" I said, grabbing the box off the counter and holding it out to the kid. He stopped wailing – thank god, he sounded like a car alarm going off in a biscuit tin – and sniffed, looking from the box in my hand to my face in confusion.

"Lo yeh lo!" I said again, shaking the box at him a little. "Tumhare liye! But please, for the love of God, stop crying!"

He said something (in Marathi, again), his voice breaking slightly as he gulped back a sob. I didn't have a clue what he was saying, so I just forced what I hoped was a reassuring smile and held the box out to him again. He still looked terrified, but slowly reached out with his right hand for the box. The thumb of his left hand was hooked over the hideously looking shiny chain around his neck, clutching it tightly for comfort and his entire body was shaking madly. I wasn't sure if it was from fear or because he was genuinely cold. My house had no heating and I'd only just noticed what he was wearing at this point; an oversized black shirt with no sleeves and the neck-line torn to the point of revealing far too much of his chest for my liking. Call me crazy but I don't particularly feel comfortable with under-age flesh on display and this kid was clearly no older than thirteen. His shirt had a pair of stripy, orange flares that looked like they'd come straight from the 70's.

The kid was nervously chewing on a chocolate Cake as I stared at him. There was no way he could have come from any of the young groups on the estate; this kid wouldn't have lasted ten seconds with them with such cloths.

"Idher raho," I said distractedly as I noticed goose-bumps rising up along his bare arms. Juvenile delinquent or whatever, I didn't want this kid freezing to death on my watch.

He looked at me, nibbling the edges of the Chocolate Cake.

"Hmm?" he asked.

"Idher- Raho!" I said a little louder and slower, gesturing to the floor as I turned to the door. It's a typical Indian trait; if someone doesn't speak Hindi, speaking louder and slower in said language will _surely_ make them understand!

I was in and out my room in less than a minute, grabbing the first brown over sized coat I could lay my hands on; a massive, oversized one that I'd woken up in after a particularly drunken house party. How I'd gotten it was a complete mystery to everyone as I'd woken up with my head on Sweta's lap, both of us sprawled on a sofa, with a pounding headache and a mouth that tasted of vomit... and somehow, I was also wearing this massive brown coeat with a random black print over my jeans. It came down to my knees and I had to push the sleeves back several times to ever use my hands, but I liked it – it had an oddly comforting smell of aftershave. No one at the party could identify who it belonged to or even how I'd gotten it in the first place (welcome to student life!), so I called dibbs and kept it. I secretly loved it; it looked like something Abhijeet would wear.

"Yeh lo," I said, back in the kitchen and holding the coat out to the kid. "Thand lag rahi hogi tumhe."

He looked at the coat and then at me before taking it and pulling it over his head, accepting it less hesitantly than the Cake. His messy curls was even more of a mess when he pulled his head through and I had to bite back a laugh – the coat was too big for me and it absolutely _swamped_ this kid - but he suddenly smiled shyly at me.

"Dhanyawad!" he said.

OK, I understood that much.

"Acha, ab acting band karo," I said, trying to sound as friendly and non-intimidating as possible, "Me nehi marungi, ap batao ap yaha kya kar rhe ho, pakka me apko chor dungi."

The kid blinked at me, apparently not understanding. I suddenly noticed he had broad and pointed nose... just like Daya. And I could have sworn I'd seen his exact outfit somewhere before...

My brain clicked. I threw my head back and laughed.

"OK, very funny," I said, patting the kid on the shoulder. "Yeh kisne kaha tha tumhe karne ko? Chirag bhaiya?"

The kid stared at me like I was a lunatic.

"You're a really good look-a-like," I continued, chuckling. "Or Marathi wala accent to bhot acha tha! So, what's your name beta?"

He still hadn't said anything. The over-sized jumper wasn't helping; he appeared to be shrinking into it with every word I said.

"Acha?" I asked, still smiling. "It's ok, itna bhi bhadda mazak nehi tha Chirag ka– kisi bache ko Daya Shetty banake–"

The kid suddenly shouted something excitedly, breaking me off mid sentence. He stared at me expectantly, and then appeared to grow impatient when I didn't say anything else, quickly saying something else in Marathi. I was too busy trying to work out what I'd said to get that reaction.

"Maza—naam—Daya Shetty- ahe," he suddenly said, enunciating every word and tapping his chest slowly with the hint of a smirk on his lips.

Huh. So I guess that was not only I imitating the Indian trait – hang on, was the little brat mocking me?!

I rolled my eyes. OK, so he wasn't giving up the act that easily, huh? Fine, I could go along with this – he was bound to slip up sooner or later and then I'd find out who'd put him up to this. I was willing to bet good money on it being either Sweta or Chirag, leaning more towards the latter; whilst both my housemates mocked me relentlessly for my love in Daya and CID, completely failing to see why I was so drawn to a the team of hero. It is a possibility for Chirag to come with prank like this. Sweta more preferred to say "I swear, do teen bache bhi ho gaye honge is officer ki" every time she looked at my CID logo and Daya's face posted in my room.

"Maza naam Sakshi ahe," I said, deliberately copying the kid's actions. I knew what 'Maza naam' meant – thank you, _Dhanyawaad_!

'Daya' grinned and held out his hand to me, pushing back the sleeve of my jumper – apparently, he'd completely gotten over my initial treatment of him in the trusting way that only a kid could.

"hello, Sakshi!" he said, giving me the goofiest smile I'd ever seen on Inspector Daya.

"Hallo, Daya," I said, shaking his hand – his hand was so small and thin, it felt like mine was swallowing his up. Chirag was SO going to pay for this at some point. What was I supposed to do now, babysit all evening until they got back?!

I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone, dialling Chirag's number. I wasn't sure if they'd be in the film by now or still at dinner, but either way, I ended up going through straight to voicemail.

"Chirag, buddy, you're so DEAD when you get home – ek dam bhadda mazak!" I said laughing, looking at Daya as I held the phone to my ear. "Seriously though, call me when you get this."

I hung up. Daya was looking at me curiously.

"Kya?!" I asked. "Yeh batao tumhari mummy arhi hai tumhe lene ya mujhe tumhe chorna hoga tumhare ghar pe, kitne der tak rukoge yaha tum?!"  
>He didn't answer, as expected.<br>The kid was an _exceptionally_ good look-a-like though. Literally, if it wasn't for the fact that I knew Daya was seven years older to me, I would have thought I had the real thing in front of me. He'd even drawn a little dimple on his right cheek, exactly as Daya.

"Tumhare face pe yeh kya laga hua hai," I said, gesturing to my mouth.

"Kay?" Daya asked.

"Kuch laga hai yaha," I said, pointing again.

Daya hand shot up to wipe his mouth (on the sleeve of my coat... charming. I give him a coat out the kindness of my heart and he wipes his mouth all over it), but the dimple was still there.  
>"Kay?" He asked again, slightly disturbed.<br>"Here, let me," I said, licking my thumb and rubbing it before he had a chance to pull away. Daya let out an annoyed cry – one that clearly said "Get off me!" – and squirmed away. The dimple was still intact.

"Yeh asli hai?!" I asked incredulously.

Daya was rubbing his face (on my coat sleeve again), looking completely disgusted and muttering something in Marathi.

Suddenly, my phone went off, vibrating furiously through my jeans pocket and belting out my ringtone. I checked caller ID – Chirag.

"'Sup?" Chirag asked as a way of greeting. "Phone kiya tha tune?"

"Yes, mene kiya tha!" I began, "Yar, tu kis jhamele me mujhe –"

"Kyaa? I can't hear you!" Chirag suddenly yelled, sounding all crackly and static. Daya was watching me curiously.

"Chirag? Buddy? Are you there? Tune kisi bache ko humare cupboard me chupaya tha kya?!"

"What? Sakshi-? I - hear - on?"

The crackling was getting worse; something was seriously interfering with the line. Daya, meanwhile, was looking back down at his foot, which was still stuck in the saucepan.

"Chirag!" I said loudly, my voice amplified in the kitchen, "Where! Did! This! Kid! Come! From?!"

"Ek minute? Sakshi hang on, I'm really sorry, I can't hear you! Reception here sucks! Hang on, I'm moving about -"

"Abe yaar! Did you or did you not hire a Daya Shetty look alike in the kitchen to scare me?!"

There was a moment of silence. I thought for a second the line had gone dead.

"Sakshi?" Chirag's voice suddenly came through, still sounding slightly crackled but a lot clearer than before. "Daya shetty? CID wala? Woh tere ghar pe aya hai?"

"He's just showed up," I said quickly in case the line went again, "Did you have anything to do with it?"

"Nope, nothing to do with me – agar aya hi hai to khush ho ja naa! Tera sex god tere samne khara hai or tu mujhe phone kyu kar rhi hai. You have the house to yourself! Aish kar uske saath!"

"Sale kamine, me yaha ek bache ke-"

"Aree yar Sakshi, film shuru hone wali hai – I'll see you later, OK? And then you can give me all the juicy details about this mystery man! Ciao!"

And then he hung up.

For a few seconds, I stood there in surprised silence. There was a chance that Chirag had been lying to me... except that wasn't really in his nature to do so. He always took pride in his work, regardless of whether it was academic or underhand. I couldn't think of anyone else I knew who would want to do such a thing, particularly if they weren't around to see the result.

Daya blinked at me.

"Problem?" he asked.

I shook my head.

"Nako," I said without thinking.

Daya face lit up, as if he liked the fact that I'd answered in Marathi. I ignored this though; my mind was otherwise occupied.

There was no denying the resemblance between the 'real' Daya and this Daya. But it was so much more than just a passing look-a-like; this kid was an exact doppelganger. He had all the right marks and distinctions, from the mole to the broad nose and the face that I have looked up was so similar when he was a kid. Plus, in this day and age, particularly on Dehradun, you'd be hard pressed to find a kid who would willingly wear this kind of cloths...

The more I thought about it, the more unlikely it seemed that he'd simply snuck in; downstairs, there were only three ways in – the front door, my bedroom window or the kitchen window. I would have heard the front door as my room was right next to it and it was impossible to get through the kitchen window stealthily as we'd stacked various bottles of booze along the kitchen shelf. And obviously, I'd been in my room the whole time; I would have noticed if some kid climbed through my window!

And if it was a prank, why would someone chose something so obscure? Surely it would be a lot easier to 'pretend' to be Daya in his current day form with massive body frame and everything. And in _Dehradun_, of all places, where mentioning CID to most people would get you a response of "Are, par humne to koi jurm kiya hi nehi."

I walked past where Daya was standing, still watching me, and opened the kitchen cupboard I'd found him in. Pots, pans, shelves, bowls, plates...There was nothing to suggest anything out the ordinary. Feeling foolish, I leaned in and gingerly tapped the back wall – nope, solid.

Daya leaned over my shoulder, looking in the cupboard with me. He babbled something which I assumed was a 'helpful' explanation. Great. For all knew, he was saying "you need to tap the third brick in on the eight row down with the handle of the Wok to open up the secret door" or something. I turned to look at him.

"Idher se aye ho?" I asked, pointing at him and the cupboard wall.

"Ho!" Daya kid nodded. He started talking quickly again, miming what appeared to be crawling, falling and then pointing at the cupboard again.

He... fell into my kitchen cupboard?

I pushed myself out the cupboard (yup, the back was firmly in place) and stood up straight, looking at Daya. From what little philosophy I could remember from school, there was one theory that had always stuck in my mind; Occam's Razor. The simplest solution was often the best one. Yes, there could be lots of possible ideas as to how this kid got in my cupboard and who he really was... but if he hadn't snuck in and it wasn't all some massive practical joke then that meant, somehow, against all the odds...

This kid could be the real thing.

Occam's Razor, my foot. This was NOT the simplest solution! Yet, weirdly, it made the most sense...

I stared at the kid in front of me. He grinned at me adorably, as if he knew I'd just figured it out. Daya Shetty, thirteen years old, in my kitchen in 2014, with his foot stuck in a saucepan.

And he didn't speak a word of Hindi.

_Behnchod._


	2. Chapter 2

**Alright after a long wait and some really good opening reviews, here is my second chapter of this rib tickling story! Feel free to leave suggestions and comments! Love you all so much! Enjoy! N yeah Aditi, sorry for posting the abusive word, but you know how the Daya kid is portrayed in this story...obnoxious and swearing pre teen! Just like every other 13 year old! So, we can pretty much expect Daya to be the same in his childhood, TOTAL JUNGLYY! Anyways, I will shut up now!**

OK, so technically, the thirteen year-old Daya Shetty had travelled _forward_ in time, so to him, he found himself in a world filled with untold possibilities and no consequences. This explained why, once I'd gotten the saucepan off his foot with liberal amounts of butter and mustard oil, he was freely rooting through the other kitchen cupboards, helping himself to whatever food he found. Seeing as he tended to tear up dangerously whenever I tried to stop him, I'd given up with trying to stop him and was now mentally calculating how much I would owe Chirag in food for the next month (Sweta's large stock of nutritional diet bars and healthy fruit and vegetables were left completely untouched).

However, for me, the girl who was in-the-future-for-Daya-but-present-day-2012-for-me, a thirteen year-old Daya Shetty was the _past._ This meant that I had to make sure not to do anything that would alter or change him from the person he would eventually become for fear of thus negating my current existence and world I lived in.

Oh my God, what a headache. I reckon Einstein realised the nightmare he was causing himself when he said time travel was possible and so quickly made up some rubbish about it only being theoretical and not actually possible.

Daya had moved on from the cupboards and was currently exploring the recesses of the fridge. I eyed the empty packets of Brittania Cakes on the floor nervously; what on earth was I going to say to Chirag?! _"Well, this cute little CID bacha suddenly showed up and started eating us out of house and home..."_

"Beta, kitna khaoge?" I asked.

Daya's head poked out the fridge, a frozen noodle hanging half-out his mouth.

"Kay?" he asked.

"Oye baat mat kar jab muh me khana ho, samjha!?"

He grinned and stuffed handful of noodles into his mouth.

What a brat! Three minutes in my house and I was already seriously reconsidering my membership for Ration card. Once I'd gotten over the initial shock and disbelief of him being here, the fangirl in me suddenly went bezerk at the realisation that I had **the** future CID officer in my kitchen. Here he was, the same man who had rescued so many lives with his bravery, along with his entire team. The man who had always risked his life to save our country, the thought that had been the one thing to get me through a particularly miserable time in my life; the same man who had helped our government to operate in unique ways to keep us safe and live a fear free life. The same man who had turned me from an ordinary girl to a fan freak. And there he was, a weirdly-dressed, rude thirteen year-old who was scoffing his face and emptying my fridge.

Disappointed? Disillusioned? Me? Naah.

"Why'd he have to be so bloody normal?" I muttered, blowing my fringe out my eyes.

"Hey!" Daya suddenly cried triumphantly, emerging from the fridge with a bottle of beer. He looked at me with adorable, wide eyes. "Please? Pleeaasee?"

"NAKOO!" I said firmly, pulling the bottle out his hand – I knew enough Marathi for that! He tried to grab it back but I was too tall – and there was a weird thought if ever there was one. Me, in my 5ft7 glory, too tall for THE Daya...

I stuck my tongue out childishly and swung the beer over his head, just out of his reach. Daya folded his arms and gave me a furious glare that clearly said "Bache se panga, bacho ka khel nehi."

I opened the fridge again and chucked a Coke at him instead. He caught it – about three times – before it finally slipped through his fingers and hit the floor, rolling away under the depths of one of the counters. I chuckled and handed him another one; hey, I don't want my favourite coat getting sticky from a Coke explosion or grubby from scrounging about on the floor to find it – God knows when we last cleaned the kitchen! He glared at me again, as if I dared laugh at him, which only just made it all the more tempting to ruffle his curly hair, though I had a feeling he wouldn't be too applicative of it.

"Yeh beer mere dosto ke hai – I'm not allowed to drink them either," I explained, putting the beer back and grabbing myself a Coke as well. Technically speaking, the Coke also belonged to Chirag but hey, students are far more protective of their booze than their soft drinks.

Daya took a long slurp of Coke and then burped loudly, echoing through the house.

Wow. This was my CID officer.

I opened my Coke, took a large gulp and then burped even louder than Daya, finishing with a smirk. He looked genuinely impressed.

"Ab kya hoga tera?" I asked.

Daya responded with his usual quick fire-Marathi. I thought wistfully back to why I did not taken Marathi at school for one year when I was eleven; I'd spent every Sanskrit lesson laughing with my friends at the back of the class, playing criss cross and generally not paying attention, thinking I was never going to need any of the Indian language other than Hindi – I remember arrogantly saying to my teacher once "Why should I bother? Everyone speaks Hindi anyway and if they don't, they should!"

Hindsight was a bitch at times.

Daya suddenly darted out the kitchen.

"HEY!" I yelled, running after him. I had to do a quick jump to avoid Sweta's shoe collection, which was scattered hazardly in the hallway; I love her, I really do, but she drives me mad as she never puts her shoes away!

Daya hadn't gone far – in fact, from the kitchen, I could already see he'd only gone as far as into the room next door.

My bedroom.

My bedroom with a rather large poster of the CID team on the back of the door.

OHMYGODNOOO! Surely seeing a poster of yourself older in someone's room was a bit of a giveaway that some considerable success was coming your way in the future?!

"HEY!" I yelled again, bursting into my room after him and slamming the door against the wall, keeping the poster well and truly hidden. "Get out of here!"

Daya was already at my desk, shifting through the scattered papers and picking up every book on it; my desk was always a bit of an organised mess.

"He kaay ahe?" he suddenly asked, holding up one of my thicker text books.

"Kitab hai," I answered flatly. He wouldn't understand if I went into details.

"Film... the-rey... an... in-tro-duc-tion," he read slowly with a very thick accent and then looked up at me. "Film? Cinema?"

I nodded, assuming 'Cinema' was a simple definition for 'film'.

Daya looked at the cover again, his head cocked to one side. He made a little "huh!" noise, as if he'd seen something interesting, then carelessly chucked the book over his shoulder and turned back to going through my desk.

"Hey!" I said, catching it painfully – heavy book! Sharp edges! "yaar, dusro ki cheezo ko haath... NOO!"

It was too late; he'd already opened the top drawer in my desk. He looked in it, let out a tiny squeak and slammed it shut, turning around and heading for my bookcase instead. He was determinedly not looking at me but I could see his cheeks were bright red... probably the same colour as mine actually.

That was it, as soon as I found a way to send him through whatever time vortex or worm hole he had fallen through, I was quitting the CID fandom. There was no way in hell I could stay a fan of that department when the senior officer as a kid had seen inside my underwear drawer.

And this had probably traumatised him for life or something as well! Fantastic. Daya probably **was not** getting married and was going to come out and do this long interview which would start with "Well, jab me chota tha tab mene ek larki ke _drawer_ me underwears dekhe the, isi wajah se main aj tak sirf ek cheez se dur bhagta hu, sorry do cheez, larki or shaadi..."

I, Sakshi Gupta, was responsible for giving Daya Shetty a life-long fear of women. CID fan-girls around the world, you can kill me now.

"Hey!"

I was half-scared to look at what he'd found now.

Oh man, I kept my napkin box on the shelf.

"What?" I said, painfully slowly turning to look at him. If I had to explain to him what they were, I was going to _die._

The napkin box was –mercifully – untouched on the highest shelf, out of his reach and eye-line. What Daya was actually holding up was my car keys with a grin on his face that could only mean one thing.

"NO!" I said firmly. "No way in HELL! Bache gaari nehi chala sakte, or mere gaari ko to bilkul nehi, chahe tu koi bhi ho!"

"HO HO!" Daya said excitedly, nodding and grabbing my hand. He started trying to pull me towards the door, babbling away in Marathi eagerly (I hate kids).

"NOOOOO!"

Trying to reason with an over-excited thirteen year-old is difficult at the best of times. Trying to reason with an over-excited thirteen year-old who doesn't even speak the same language as you is just plain stupid. I had a sneaking suspicion that Daya was also deliberately choosing not to understand me. I mean, I knew a few basic words and phrases of Marathi. Surely Daya should have at least understood what "no" meant?!

"Hey Daya," I said, pulling my hand free. I looked around my room desperately for a distraction; my eyes fell on a football, discarded at the foot of my bed. It was Chirag's football actually.

Hmm... He likes to kick the doors don't he. He might just love to play the football too then.

"Yeh lo, khelo isse!"

I seized the white ball off the floor and handed it triumphantly to him.

Here's what I was hoping would happen:

I was hoping Daya's face would light up with joy, disbelief and happiness when he looked at the ball. This would keep him occupied for several hours when he decided he wanted to try out as many new ways of kicking it, and yes, it would be a wrench to have him kick the ball in my room since..its my room for heaven sakes and every single thing in here is so precious to me, even the plastic cups. (student, i.e. permanently poor, remember?) but as long as it kept Daya occupied for a bit, it would be a worthwhile sacrifice.

And I was **not at all** mentally wondering in an obsessed fangirl way where I was going to frame Chirag's football on the wall once Daya had played with it.

Here's what actually happened:

I forgot that Daya, for all his officer stunts, was not actually an officer yet. I also forgot that Daya was not the one who symbolized himself to be the kicker of the team. It is job not hobby.  
>And then he abruptly gave me a disgusted and somewhat bewildered look that clearly said "... the hell is this?"<p>

I realised – far, far, _far_ too late – my elementary error. I might as well have tried to shove him into reading Sherlock Holmes.

"Never mind," I said, grabbing the ball from his clutches. Daya still looked rather confused as he said something; I had a feeling it was probably something along the lines of questioning my mental health. "OK, so what else could we do?"

Here's what I hate about kids; turn your back on them for one second and they'll be doing something they shouldn't, whether it's sneaking their hand back in the cookie jar or shoving a fork in a plug socket.

Or, in this instance, making a break for the front door as I looked around the room for a suitable distraction.

"HEY!" I yelled (not for the first time that night. I hoped this wasn't becoming my catchphrase) and ran after him. He was already in the hallway with the front door unlatched. This was _really_ starting to get old.

"DAYA IDHER AOO!" I snarled through gritted teeth, trying to sound scary.

Do you know how he responded?

He didn't quiver in fear and stop where he was, as I'd hoped. Instead, he laughed and jangled my car keys teasingly at me.

_The little idiot was laughing at me._

"You are SO DEAD!" I yelled, running after him. "Mere car keys wapas –"

Daya yelled delightedly and disappeared out the front door. I ran after him –

"AHHH!"

The next thing I knew, I was lying painfully on the floor. I looked back at what I fallen over – a patent red, six-inch stiletto heel. Bloody Sweta and her shoes! I quickly scrambled to my feet, ignoring the stinging sensation on my hands and stumbled to the door, propping myself up against the doorframe as I looked out on my estate.

Daya was nowhere to be seen.

"Daya?!" I called out.

No reply.

"Shit!"


	3. Chapter 3

**Thank you all for commenting and loving this story. Ofc it has to do something with romance, it just won't begin yet. So to those who want whirlwind romance, I am not leaving you behind guys... its just my way to begin a story! Anyways, please read and review and suggest. Make me feel good about it! Thanks again!**

I ducked back into the house and stuffed my feet into my trainers by the door before running outside onto the estate.

"Daya?" I called again, looking around. The houses loomed over me ominously, the multiple alleyways dotted around leading into blackness. A cold wind gently blew, ruffling my hair and I shivered.

He was gone. The estate was completely deserted.

"Daya!" I shouted.

My voice echoed off the walls around me.

"DAYA!"

"OK Sakshi, don't panic, don't panic... he can't have gotten that far..."

I'd been frantically running around my estate for the past five minutes, yelling "Daya!" and I still hadn't found him. Part of me was furious at him for running off, the other part was furious at **me** for losing him in the first place.

I stopped running and peered down one of the alleyways. I couldn't see anything at the other end as it trailed off into shadow ominously.

"Daya?" I called.

Nothing.

Where the hell could he be?!

I was trying not to panic too much. I had a feeling if I let myself panic, I'd end up hysterical. I stopped walking and took a deep breath.

Maybe Daya had somehow found some way to go back home? Back to his time, to the 20th century? If that was the case then I was running around the estate like a headless chicken for nothing. I shivered and pulled the edges of my thin cardigan around me tighter; I really wasn't dressed appropriately for this kind of excursion, running around outside after midnight in the middle of winter. If I got pneumonia from running around after this bloody kid, I am sending all my hospital costs to ACP Pradyuman!

I turned around and started to head back to my house.

What if Daya hadn't gone home though? What if he was still on the estate, completely lost and terrified? What if he ran into one of the gangs?! He had nothing worth pinching but they still might beat the crap out of him! Or what if he ran into something – or some_one_ much worse...? What if Daya became one of those 'missing kids' who just vanished without a trace and no one ever saw him again? It wasn't as if I could just go to the police and report him missing – "_No, I'm not his legal guardian or related to him in any way at all, he just showed up in my kitchen cupboard... Yeah, I know that sounds a bit odd... Description? Well, he's Marathi, about yay-high, weirdly dressed and from the year 1980's or something..._"

And if Daya went missing **now**, at age 13, wouldn't that change the future?

Well, technically present day, but the point still stands!

If Daya had vanished at 13 then he never would have gone on CID, so CID would never have been the same and if CID had never existed as it is now then –

I broke off mid-thought. Well, actually, probably not all that much would change in all fairness. It wasn't as if CID had spent all their time single-handedly saving the lives of thousands without a second thought.

But what about the fans? What about the people in help?

What about me?

**I'd** been changed by being a fan. The CID team had certainly affected my life; after all, hadn't I stayed in uni because of CID? I couldn't say with a hundred percent certainty that I would have stayed without them but they certainly had been a very big reason in why I hadn't dropped out initially. If I hadn't heard their bravery, then I wouldn't have gotten some strength from it, so I wouldn't have gotten through those first few weeks... so I wouldn't have met Sweta and Chirag...

... so we would never have moved in together.

So I never would have been in the house by myself one night when Daya appeared.

Hang on, that would mean that I never would have lost him in the first place, so CID **would** have actually existed they way it is, which meant that I **would** have been able to be his fan -

"DAYAAAAA!" I bellowed out as loudly as I could, trying to shut up my ridiculously confusing thought process. See, **this** was why you didn't mess with time! What a headache!

A light in an upstairs window of the house I was in front of suddenly flicked on.

"KYUUU CHILLA RAHI HOO, DIMAG KHARAB KAR DIYA!" a man yelled, leaning out the window.

"DIMAG TUMHARA KHARAB HO RAHA HAI, YAHA EK BACHA NEHI MIL RAHA HAI, TUMHE APNI DIMAG KI PARI HAI!" I screamed. "WHERE'S YOUR SENSE OF COMPASSION?!"

The man scowled at me and let out a long stream of profanities. His long hair was tangled and sticking up at all angles and I could see from where he was leaning on the window sill that his massive arms had sleeve tattoos covering every inch of skin. I suddenly noticed a car parked outside the front of the house with a tattoo of Ravan .

Oh, great plan Sakshi. Lose Daya Shetty and then pick a fight with Ravan himself.

"Gotta go!" I yelped, cutting Ravan off mid-swear stream and then did what anyone with half a brain would have done sooner – I legged it down the nearest alleyway.

I stopped running once I was pretty sure the guy wasn't following me and leaned against the wall, breathing heavily. Yup, this was turning out to be a swell night. Trying to catch my breath, I happened to look down the alleyway.

I gasped. (This was a mistake; never gasp when you're already struggling to breathe from running from Ravan.) At the far end of the alley, I could see a small figure standing there. His face was completely in shadow from the street light behind him but I could just make out the horrific mustard-yellow flares he was wearing underneath a ridiculously over-sized hoodie.

And then I realised he wasn't alone. Hidden in the depths of the alleyway, a tall, large man suddenly stepped out into the light of the streetlight.

Have you ever seen _Pan's Labyrinth_? There's a bit where all the real-life horror in that film, like a guy getting his face smashed in _extreme_ close-up detail, gets completely obliterated in terms of High-Octane Nightmare Fuel for a fantasy sequence. Our young heroine, the adorable 11 year-old girl, is facing the camera... and behind her, you can see that _thing_ come towards her with its hands held up. The sheer fear and blind panic you felt for that oblivious girl's potential fate... well, multiply that by about 483 and you'll get what I felt when I realised Daya wasn't alone. My mind immediately flashed back to fears of child molesters and murderers and without realising it, I was suddenly scrambling down the alley, running as fast as I could towards him.

"Daya!" I screamed as I ran.

I was close enough now to see Daya's face as he looked up. His face suddenly broke into a massive beaming smile.

"Sakshi!" he said, sounding delighted.

"You – you useless – little – **idiot**! Don't - you – EVER – run away from me – samjha!?" I gasped out when I'd finally reached him. Hail Pt Usha...

Daya laughed and said something in Marathi.

The man standing next to Daya – the scary paedophile I'd been trying to save Daya from suddenly chuckled.

"Woh keh raha hai tum right time pe pochi ho" he said.

It took a few seconds for me to understand what I'd just heard.

"Ap...Marathi jante he?" I asked, looking at the man in confusion. Up close, I realised he wasn't actually much taller than me and was quite chubby – I could see a round belly straining under his t-shirt. Far from the image of your stereotypical pedo, with the large coat and hidden face, this guy looked more like your late-30's Sci-Fi geek.

He chuckled again and nodded.

"Ha me Mumbai se engineering ki hai isiliye thori bhot Marathi samajh or boll eta hu, wese Daya bohot pareshan tha apko leke, ap kahi kho gayi thi kya?"

I looked around and suddenly realised we were one of the alleyways by my house. I'd completely run past it earlier in my mad-rush to try and find Daya –

Wait, had the little brat been waiting here for me all along?

I was finally a bit more composed and breathing easily. I stood up straight and put a hand on Daya's shoulder, pulling him towards me. OK, so this guy might not have been some creepy Child-Catcher but just in case...

Much to my utter surprise, Daya automatically took a step towards me, pressing his back against me as I wrapped an arm around his shoulders. His fingers wrapped around my forearm, not so much to try and pull me off but more of something to hold on to.

Christ, he must have really been scared. Probably not as worried as I'd been though, I'd wager.

"Well, thank you, Mr -?" I trailed off, holding out my free hand to the man.

"Ariz Hussain," he said with a friendly smile. "Ap Sakshi Gupta ho na?"

I nodded, eager to get away from this guy. "Ha, chalo bohot raat ho gayi hai, chalte he! Take care Mr. Hussain!- "

"Please, call me Ariz!" he interrupted.

"Ariz," I corrected quickly, forcing a smile on my face. Polite but firm. "Again, thank you so much –"

"Erm, Sakshi ji, apse ek baat puchni thi, agar apko koi aitraaz na ho to –"

I froze. Oh God, what was this man going to ask me now? Then again, considering the night I was having, I had a feeling nothing was ever going to sound strange to me again. Daya must have felt my discomfort – his fingers twitched around my arm.

"Ap flat number 203 me rehte ho kya?" Ariz asked.

I was so surprised I couldn't even lie.

"Yeah, I do! How did you know?!"

Ariz laughed loudly.

"We're neighbours!" he said, sounding delighted. "Me apka neighbour hu, apse kabhi baat tak nehi hui to socha apse mil lu, apne shayad mujhe pehchana nehi hoga haina!"

THIS GUY?! This guy was my mysterious neighbour? The one who I always heard fighting with his girlfriend and had lived next to for two years but never actually met? THIS was him?

... this guy actually **had** a girlfriend?

I laughed – mainly to disguise my complete shock – and shook his hand.

"Oh, apse milkar bohot khushi hui!" I said.

Ariz shook my hand, chuckling and sounding amused.

"Duniya bhot choti hai, nehi?" he asked.

"Indeed," I murmured.

Daya was looking frantically from me to Ariz. He asked something to which Ariz replied fluently in Marathi.

"Kya keh rha hai?" I asked.

"He just wants to know what's going on."

I half toyed with the idea of getting Ariz to ask Daya where he'd actually come from and then thought better of it. Regardless of whether this guy was my neighbour or not, he was still a bit creepily weird in an 'I'm too happy to be considered normal' way. Plus I didn't particularly want to have to explain to someone I'd just met that the kid I was clutching quite protectively to me was actually a kid to whom I had no real ties or bounds to.

Daya said something else, looking up at me hopefully.

"Woh puch raha hai ki ap use apne gaari ghumane kyu nehi le ja sakti," Ariz translated.

I suddenly felt my car keys being pressed into my free hand and Daya grinned at me.

"**That's** what you wanted?" I asked incredulously. "Tum chahte the ki **Main** tumhe le jau kahi?"

Ariz quickly translated and Daya gave an excited nod.

"Ho!" he said. His brown eyes locked with mine, pleading.

"Oh..." was all I could manage out, somewhat dazed.

Ariz chuckled again. Slightly irritating... "Boys, they're all the same."

I tore my gaze from Daya's and looked up to meet Ariz's.

"Huh?"

"Well, you know how it goes... young boy, pretty older girl... it won't matter what you do, he's in awe of you," Ariz explained, and suddenly gave me a very obvious wink.

CREEPY.

"You should have heard kese Daya ne apke bare me mujhe bataya, wese ap uski...?"

"Babysitter," I said quickly. "Mere cousins. From Mumbai, obviously. Woh bahar gaye hue he."

"Ow, Daya apka cousin hai?"

"No! He is, dost hai ... mere cousin ka... who had to go out..." I trailed off pathetically.

Why on Earth had I just said that? A Marathi baby friend of my cousin who had to go out? I sucked at lying, officially.

I still had my arm around Daya. He tugged on it impatiently and said something I didn't understand.

"Ha Daya, we should go!" I said brightly.

Helpful translator, tick yes. Extremely creepy and implying that the thirteen year-old Daya fancied the twenty year-old me, also tick yes.

"Ariz, apse milke bohot khushi hui, kabhi milenge, chai piyenge ek saath baith ke, mere cousin ke dost ko jane do fir I will make a program thik haina!" I babbled quickly, backing away and pulling Daya along with me. Ariz made no attempt to move or follow but remained standing where he was, smiling and nodding at us.

"Sure sure Sakshi ji, apse or apke chote se dost se milke bhot khushi hui –"

He said something in German, pointing at me – Daya suddenly stumbled backwards over his own feet and in the harsh glare of the street light, I could see the boy's cheeks had flooded with colour. I caught him and set him up right, taking his hand and leading him out the alleyway towards the car park without looking back.

Daya shuddered and muttered one word. I didn't know it but I got the basic gist.

"Tell me about it," I said.

~*~*~

Thankfully, the car park was literally around the corner so we escaped from Creepy-Ariz very quickly. Daya's face lit up when he saw my car and he said something in an impressed voice. I couldn't hold back a smile; I was quite fond of my car. It wasn't particularly flashy or impressive but it wasn't a total pile of rusted rubbish either, like most young people's first cars. Chirag's car was a particular example of this; the floor under the passenger seat was actually some cardboard duct-taped down and any attempts to drive it for more than an hour would lead to smoke pouring out from under the bonnet and standing by the roadside waiting for the on road car service. My car, on the other hand, had never given me any trouble and save for a few scratches and a dent in the passenger door the size of my fist (a minor collision with a cyclist) was in a perfectly acceptable condition.

Daya saw my smile and laughed, running eagerly to the right hand-side door.

"OI!" I yelled, "You're not driving!"

Daya peered in the window, confused, and then understanding flashed over his face. He quickly scampered around to the passenger door and climbed in.

Huh. So he really wasn't trying to get me to let him drive. How... unexpected. Despite how he'd initial been acting, I was beginning to wonder if Daya really was like your average thirteen year-old. After all, he'd managed to surprise me twice in the past few minutes.

I opened my car door and climbed in.

"So, where do you want to go?" I asked.

"Kai?" Daya asked.

My mind quickly flipped through various activities; it was almost midnight on a Friday night in a student area, so most places would be open quite late. Reflex, the local bar, did all-nighter's on Fridays, closing at 9am, but I couldn't take to be cop Daya Shetty to a Booze bar –

Hang on, what was _wrong_ with me? I couldn't take a **THIRTEEN YEAR-OLD** to a booze bar!

OK, so clubbing was out. I knew far too many people would be out tonight anyway, chances were I'd bump into someone I knew and if I had some afro kid tagging along behind me, that would raise one too many questions.

The cinema had a fair amount of films showing late into the night but they were mostly horror films rated 18. Again, I was being foiled by Daya's evident under-ageness, and even if I _did_ sneak him in somehow, I didn't want to be responsible for traumatising him – I saw _Saw _ when I was 12 and it was a long time before I could sleep with the lights off.

Plus, you know – the whole 'doesn't speak a word of English or hindi' thing too.

"Come on, what do most teenagers do late at night if they can't get into the cinema or go clubbing?!" I asked out loud. "Daya, what do you do for fun?"

"Huh?"

Daya had been rooting through the glove compartment, not paying attention to a word I was saying. I was beginning to get used to his nosey nature; he apparently was one of those people who would encroach on your personal space and you just had to get used to it. He looked up at me and shrugged.

Maybe he just wanted to go for a drive? Maybe he didn't actually care where we went, just as long as we got somewhere?

I started up the car. Daya gave a squeal of excitement and pulled on his seatbelt. I hid my smile as I did up my own; it was kinda sweet though with how excited he was getting over just going for a drive. I pushed the gear stick into drive and pulled out the car park, turning left onto the main road.

For a few seconds, we drove in silence. I was still looking around, trying to think of where I could take him; the mountains? The nearest one was about an hour's drive away, so we wouldn't get there till half one... and then we still had to get back. Mountains at night... I have gone crazy, inside out.

And then suddenly, Daya started talking.

He talked animatedly, at great length and very quickly with lots of hand gestures and added sound effects – and I had no idea what he was talking about. I caught random words every now and then, like _'manus'_ and, the good old '_Oh Deva_.' I wished I knew what he was talking about but I guess with some people you don't always get to understand everything about them.

Or **anything**, in this situation.

Deva Deva, this sucked.

"Hey! Sakshiiii!" Daya suddenly yelled excitedly.

"What?" I asked, alarmed. Why was he screaming?

He started babbling away excitedly in Marathi, pointing out the window to a sign up ahead.

"pleaajj pleajjj?" he asked, clasping his hands together and pleading.

"OK OK, fine!" I said, indicating and pulling in to where he'd been pointing (though there wasn't much need to – the roads were completely deserted). It was a derelict car park with not a single other soul in sight. "OK, so what do you want to do?"

He said something, pointing out the windscreen.

I stared at what he was pointing at. It was a large grey building, shaped like a sports stadium only considerably smaller. I suddenly recognised where we were; it was the local ice rink.

"_That_?" I asked incredulously. "Ice skating?"

"Ho!" Daya said with a nod and a grin.

I laughed. Even if it was a reasonable time of day, the ice rink wouldn't be open – it had been closed for the past few weeks for repairs and a revamp.

"Stadium band hai is time pe!" I said, pointing at the clock on my dashboard.

Daya suddenly smirked. I felt a nasty sense of foreboding. I was quickly learning nothing good ever came of that smirk.

Sure enough, I was right. Quick as a flash, his seatbelt was undone and he was reaching for the door handle –

Except my car had auto-lock. As soon as I started driving, the doors had locked.

"HA!" I said triumphantly. "Ab bhag ke dikha, bache!"

Daya frowned, annoyed, and tugged on the handle again. The door still didn't open.

"Sakshiiiiiiiiiiiiii!" Daya whined, pulling at the door handle. He said something else, which I assumed was probably 'let me out' or 'unlock the door, woman!' – I caught the word "Pleaaaajjj" used repeatedly.

I sighed and rolled my eyes. Maybe once he saw it was all locked up, we could get back in the car and go somewhere else? I was pretty sure there was a 24 hour McDonalds nearby...

"Thik hai, I trust am trusting you" I said firmly as I pressed a button in my door. The doors unlocked with a loud 'thunk.' "Ab bhagne ki koshish bhi mat –"

The words trailed off as he flung open his door and I was suddenly alone in my car.

"bhag gaya."

Oh, for Christ's sake! I pushed open my door and quickly got out the car, half expecting to see nothing but an empty car park.

Much to my complete surprise though, Daya hadn't gone too far. He was already halfway across the car park but he'd stopped and was waiting for me.

"Sakshi!" he called out, waving at me excitedly. "Ye!"

I shut my car door and locked it, walking up to him. He waited patiently for me to catch up and then darted off towards the entrance of the building, turning around every now and then to make sure I was still following.

Oh God, what was I getting myself into?


End file.
